


Lit You Up Like a Star (that I will follow)

by TheHatterTheory



Series: Hagalaz [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Everyone lives, M/M, MOTHER-FRACKING-FLUFF YALL, Magical Stiles Stilinski, No Hale Fire, Russian Mythology, SORRY YALL, WAFF, Znaiushchie Liudi, an au for my au, except claudia - Freeform, pure self indulgence, some brief mentions of stiles with other characters, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: A self indulgent au for my au - no real knowledge of the hagalaz series is required-
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Hagalaz [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/55619
Comments: 54
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In Hagalaz it's insinuated that Stiles' grandfather was a Hale emissary and died before Stiles was born. My brain went on a tangent about what it could have been like if he'd lived. This is mostly supernatural slice of life with some drama thrown in. It's absolutely still Sterek, because in this series, they will always end up together. (I'm a cheeseball like that)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't super polished, mostly bits and bobs while I start playing around in this sandbox again. This is utter self indulgence.

January 1995

At seven thirty, Talia decided against splitting up and going to their respective homes. Instead, she followed Ginnadiy back to his house to work through his library. She was convinced the incursion of hunters had to have a nonviolent resolution. Magic was their only remaining option, every other avenue exhausted. Knowing she wouldn't let it go, he prepared himself for another long night of searching through his books on law and ceremony. 

At eight pm, Ginnadiy stared at the dead body of a hunter, eyes fastened on the broken syringe clenched tightly in a fist. Talia's features smoothed back into her human face, but her eyes remained red as if unwilling to trust that the threat had passed. 

At two in the morning, they were near Tahoe making the trek to a wendigo's nest. (Talia was always antsy in the creatures presences, he'd seen far worse and didn't mind them so much.)

* * *

February 1995

His daughter invited him to her home, her voice lilting with cheer and laughter. When he got there, his son in law (a man he grudgingly respected even if he was former military and a policeman, a man he never would have trusted in Russia) was smiling and holding his daughter close. The song their joy created was sweet to his heart, comforted the niggling worry her phone call had provoked.

Klavdiya held his hands and told him he would be a grandfather, that she was already well into her first trimester, according to the doctors.

He put his hand to her belly, ignoring how she laughed and told him not to spoil any surprises; she and her husband both too used to his little idiosyncrasies to be shocked. He didn't look for a heartbeat or the first flutterings of movement, it was too soon for that. Instead he listened carefully. The _song_ of a child growing was unmistakable, that of the znaiushchie liudi even more so.

The notes of songs, earth old and stirring made his heart skip a beat; rime and conflagration were sparking and colliding already, the first whispers of the boy's - _it would be a boy, his daughter was having a son, she was having a_ child _, he thought in wonder_ \- potential.

In a rare show of emotion, he cried.

* * *

August 1995

The boy was born early, impatient to see the world. Too eager, too curious. Already he was a handful, tiny limbs flailing, reaching for his mother and father, reaching for him. High pitched wails filled the room, loud and strong. The doctor announced him perfect, despite being a little premature.

Klavidiya gave the baby his name, something he had not anticipated, and something already long past discussion if John's easy, silent nod was anything to go by. Then again, he was staring down at his son, eyes filled with awe. It was that look, that familiar awe that granted Ginnadiy the patience to wait to hold his grandson.

When John finally, almost reluctantly held the boy out in offering, he took him gently with a grateful smile.

“Gena,” He hummed, staring down at his grandson, surprised to see the baby staring back up at him, gaze intent. Even in the dimmed lights, his eyes were pale, not the damp earth brown of his mothers, or the pale blue of his fathers. Not Alkaev eyes either. They were almost gold, unlike any eyes he'd seen in John's family photos, or known in his own family tree. If he were given to superstition -something that he lacked, _knowing_ as he did- he'd say Triglav had touched the boy.


	2. 2001

The comforting, safe words rolled around Stiles, the familiar roll and dip of Russian. His mom had an appointment and his dad was working. But his ded always had time for him. Although this was the first time he'd been allowed in his ded's library. It had always been off limits, mostly because he was too young and hyper for such a quiet place. He tried to remember the other words used and couldn't quite grasp them, too many syllables to roll off of his tongue.

But now he was six, and six was a big age, according to his granddad. Six was when big things happened.

“Gena,” His ded rumbled, his voice deep and flowing, like water. “This might hurt a little. You'll feel like a balloon, ready to pop.”

“I won't though. Humans aren't made of rubber.”

“No, they're not,” His ded smiled, his beard shifting to show it. “And you won't. But it will feel that way. You'll be alright, and it will settle, I promise.”

Stiles nodded, excited by the odd accouterments his grandfather had gathered. A vial of water, a wooden bowl, a small pile of herbs, and something that looked like his mom's favorite green eyeshadow, crushed up into a powder.

His granddad poured the water into the bowl, the small puddle in the base staining the wood dark. His grandfather sang; Stiles loved it, loved how his words rolled, loved it when he and his mother sang because it always sounded like they were from somewhere else -and they were, but to know it just by listening to them, to hear that place in their voices, was something Stiles still found amazing and wished he could do-.

Cold chilled the room, the water rippling in response. When he finished, he watched his grandfather slowly sprinkle the herbs in, the dried leaves and flowers resting at the surface, refusing to sink.

Stiles gasped in delight when another song elicited fire in the bowl, the herbs disappearing before the flame died. The water was murky, almost black. One final stanza to the song as the green powder was mixed in, swirling on the surface before sinking.

“Drink this Gena. It will taste strange, maybe even bad. But you need to drink it all.”

Stiles accepted the bowl in both hands and tipped it back. It tasted like snow going down, lighting up like the doused flame was coming back to life when it settled in his belly.

His ded had been right. He felt like he was inflating like a balloon, the fire inside of his stomach growing and growing. He felt likes he was going to throw up, the slithering thing dancing inside of his belly.

“Ded,” He whimpered, reaching for his grandfather. Strong arms wrapped around him, a large, callused hand running over his buzzed hair and stilling on the back of his neck.

“It will settle, Gena. Just wait it out.”

He couldn't stop himself from crying into his grandfather's shirt. The pain didn't lessen, didn't disappear until he fell unconscious.

* * *

“ _Raskovnik_? I can't believe you! He's still a child.”

“It is always done on our sixth birthday, Klavdiya,” His grandfather reasoned. “Better he learn control as a child than attempt it as an adult.”

“It's too much for a child.”

“It will come easier to him now than later. Or would you prefer he deal with it on top of becoming a man as well?”

“I'd have preferred a choice,” His mother’s voice snapped.

“Mom?”

“Gena,” She murmured, rushing over to the couch. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a balloon that popped.”

“It's alright sweetheart,” She promised. “It's done now.”

“Why did I have to do that?”

His mom looked back up at her father, pointedly glaring. “It is a tradition in our family, for those born a little different.”

“Different?”

“Like your grandfather, sweetheart.”

* * *

For a week, every time he was dropped off at his ded's, his mother took a few minutes to speak to him in angry, hushed whispers, always saying 'He's my son'. As if such an indisputable fact was even in question.

Then his ded would take him to the library or out to the birch tree and sing, the quality of his voice different than before. It filled the air with something Stiles was sure he could grab if he could just figure out _how_.

* * *

Stiles stared at the big house, the first word coming to mind being 'mansion'. It wasn't like the mansions he'd seen on tv, those all looked like the White House, not really different on the outside, with columns and white paint and balconies. (He could list out the differing details, but that would have been boring, and taken far too much time.)

The Hale's house looked different. It was wooden and brown, like it had grown out of the forest surrounding it. Stiles thought about all of his grandfather's stories from Russia, about the shapers and healers that lived in cabins in the forest. It wasn't a cabin as he had always pictured it, but it was-He tried to think of the word the decorating magazines in the doctor's office used-Rustic. It was rustic and woodsy, and he loved it on sight. There was even smoke curling out of the chimney.

It was a perfect home for a pack of bodark, at least to his young mind.

“Gena, come on,” His mom said, smiling at him. He smiled back up at her, then at his grandfather, who gave him an encouraging nod.

“My name is Stiles,” He reminded his mom, who only rolled her eyes. She and his ded were the only people in the whole world that called him Gena, and he sort of liked it, because it was their name for him, and names were important. His mom and ded both said true names were a person's song, and some day he would be able to know people like his ded did, if he listened. But he didn't want anyone else knowing his name. Not after the substitute had called it out (or tried, grievously butchering it) and Jackson had decided his name was hilarious. Defending it had only made the teasing worse, and Scott was the only one not still laughing about it.

Before they'd even finished walking up the stairs, the front door opened and a woman walked out, a smile on her face. There was someone shouting behind her, and he heard the heavy thumps even as the woman sighed and turned back to the open door.

“Children, _enough_! We have guests!”

Stiles heard something in the woman's voice, saw her eyes shift and change from deep brown to a bright red that glowed even in the daylight. But it was that sound, echoing with something underneath it, a tangible thread.

“You can sing!” Stiles exclaimed, excited and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Like ded!”

The woman looked at him, head tilting and a smile quirking her lips. It was almost the exact same look his mother gave him sometimes, only his mother smiled wider, like she could never make herself smile only halfway.

“Hello, Talia,” His grandfather greeted, his deep voice accenting heavily on her name. “You remember my daughter, Klavdiya. I'd like you to meet her son, Stiles. Stiles, this is Talia Hale.”

Talia bent down, her smile growing wider, more like his mom's. Stiles offered his hand fearlessly, almost sticking it right in her face. Talia shook it lightly, looking more amused than serious. Her eyes flashed red for a moment and he leaned closer, determined to figure out how she was doing it.

“You can sing like we can?” He asked abruptly, still staring at her eyes, puzzling over the shades of brown and attempting to find the red that had shone through.

“No,” Talia laughed, standing back up. “I don’t sing in quite the same way. Come inside. Forgive my children, please. It's so close to the moon-”

“All children are the same,” His mother laughed. “Gena’s just as rambunctious.”

“Maybe he'll give mine a run for their money,” Talia chuckled as they walked through the foyer and into the large, open living room. Stiles looked around curiously, surprised by all of the people present. His house only ever seemed to be occupied by his mom, his dad and him, and sometimes his ded, that was it. But he noticed three kids, two other women, and two men all sitting around. He recognized Cora from school the year before, but he couldn't remember seeing her since the new year started.

“Everyone, this is Mr. Alkaev and his daughter, Mrs. Stilinski, and her son, Stiles. They'll be spending more time with all of us in the future,” Talia explained, voice authoritative. A majority of the room was giving him appraising looks, like they could see what was going on in his skull and couldn't quite decide if Talia was being serious or not.

“Why?” The boy said, staring at him like he was some sort of alien. Stiles resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, but only barely. His ded and mother had both told him he needed to make a good impression. He wondered if Mrs. Hale had told her children the same thing. (He doubted it, if the boy's expression was anything to go by.)

“He is Mr. Alkaev's apprentice. Some day he will be the alpha's adviser.”

“Huh?” Stiles asked, silent judgment of the boy completely forgotten in the wake of the declaration. Because no one had said anything like that. Immediately he thought about Jafar, who he'd watched betray the sultan only the day before.

“Not for a long time, Gena,” His mother promised. “But someday.”

“Not like Jafar though.”

“Not like Jafar,” She hummed, voice lilting like the corner of her lips pulling into a smile. It was reassurance and a promise.

“Like Genie?”

“Maybe.”

Stiles walked fearlessly into the living room and stuck his hand out at the nearest person, who happened to be Cora. She stared at it, looking afraid of the appendage, like he would hurt her for some reason. It rubbed him the wrong way, how she just-Stared.

“Why haven't you been at school?” He asked. She glared at him.

“Cora came into her shift early. She won't return to public school until she can control it better,” Talia explained gently.

“Oh,” Stiles mumbled, seeing the disappointment on Cora's face. “I'm sorry.”

Cora shrugged, despite looking sullen. He couldn't imagine being pulled out of school, having to leave Scott behind.

He sat down next to her. The adults started talking amongst themselves and he stopped paying attention, focusing completely on Cora. The other kids left the room, like he had missed Talia saying they could go.

“Want to be friends?”

“You sound stupid.” Her glare was a near perfect replica of the other boy's. Siblings. Stiles almost envied her for a moment. Unfortunately, he was an only child.

“Lots of people say that, but mom says it's because they don't get me because I'm different from them. And now I can't tell anyone about coming here, not even dad. Mom says soon, but not yet. And I can't sing unless I'm with them anymore either, even though ded started teaching me new songs. Your house is huge. I like it better than Lydia's house. Hers looks like the white house, but this looks like a giant tree house-”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“My dad says it's impossible for me to be quiet,” He mumbled, his face growing warm. Most people he knew told him to shut up, but hearing it from Cora felt worse somehow. They were supposed to get along, weren't they? They were both different from other people. Apparently he was just weird in general.

Cora was staring at him like she didn't know whether she was going to push him in mud or not. Thankfully, there was no mud in the house, although he'd seen a bunch of puddles along the road they'd driven up.

He stuck his hand out again.

“I'll hurt you,” She mumbled, staring down at it.

“My mom is here, she can make it better.”

Cora didn't even grip his hand when she shook it.

(Cora hated Batman, but she loved Wonder Woman. Watching Justice League and discussing the many faults of Aqua Man led to hide and seek in the woods. Stiles only accused her of being 'a girl' once. The resulting tears on both their ends and promises never to be mean again cemented their friendship.)


	3. 2003

“Mom, Talia said I could go to the next gathering with them! Her cousin in Wisconsin and his pack will be there, and one from Arizona!”

“I know sweetheart,” His mother repeated, sounding amused. “Your grandfather's still not sure if it's a good idea.”

“But why not? I'm big enough now! And Cora's going, even Elise! She's human.”

“I know, and I think it would be good for you to go. Your grandfather is just a stick-”

The world lurched, and sound became a tangible, unbearable thing. Crashes and screeching overwhelmed the world, bore down on Stiles relentlessly, a series of unmerciful sensations so quick and complete he was sure he would die from from it.

* * *

The walls were too bright. They were white, and too bright, sterile.

“Stiles?”

He tilted his head, felt pain drift up from his shoulder to his neck and winced.

“Just stay still son.”

“Where's mom?”

“She's in another room, with a doctor. Don't worry.”

It sounded like a lie.

* * *

Cora's arms were loose around him, Derek's hand in his stealing his pain while they watched their parents speaking.

“Thank you again for this Talia,” John said, voice weary and yet still apologetic.

“It's not a problem John. You and Gennadiy focus on Claudia. We'll take care of Stiles. If you need anything else, call. I know Gennadiy can be stubborn-”

“We'll be fine.”

“I packed you some clothes, and Elise made some food. I know you're not feeling up to it, but you both need more than hospital coffee.”

“I don't want to go,” He declared in a quiet voice.

“I need you to be safe right now Stiles. Hospitals aren't a place for children.”

* * *

The words of the eulogy marched on in the steady pace of a dirge, unrelenting. Words and words, people talking about his mom that had barely known her at all. Her best friends were quiet, Talia and Melissa, Elise-His dad and grandfather also remained seated, silent while others spoke about how vibrant and full of life his mom had been.

Their use of the past tense made him want to correct them, like they corrected him when he spoke of her as though she was still there.

* * *

The window slid open and Laura rolled over the ledge and into the room. Another shape followed, and then another.

“Stiles?” Cora asked, moving closer to the bed.

“I'm awake,” He told them uselessly, not knowing what else to say.

They couldn't fit on his small bed, so Laura moved on quiet feet out into the hall and came back with an armload of blankets and quilts from the linen closet. They unfolded them and formed a messy pile on the floor, him in the center and surrounded by the pack.

“Don't wanna sleep.”

“Go to sleep,” Laura commanded quietly. “We'll be here when you wake up.”

It was probably the first true thing he'd heard in days.

* * *

The bottle on the table was half empty.

“Dad?”

Bleary, red eyes opened.

“Dad?” He repeated softly.

“Stiles, what are you doing up?”

Something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what it was, only that his father’s voice sounded wrong, that he moved wrong as he ushered him back to his bedroom. Unsettled, he curled deeper into his blankets, wishing for the comfort of his mother.

* * *

He opened bleary eyes and immediately searched for his mother's song, trying to pinpoint her location in the house. When he found nothing the world came back to him, reality leaving him cold, even wrapped in the blanket.

She was gone. The world around him felt too big, everything miles and miles away. His throat closed and he couldn't breathe.

His dad. What if his dad was gone too?

He tried saying the words, tried asking but they wouldn't form, his throat still too tight, closed shut and refusing anything, to breathe or to speak.

“Stiles?” Laura said, scrambling to a stop in front of him. Cora and Derek thumped down, ignoring the stairs in favor of jumping the railing. He could see it all, saw them. “Stiles what's wrong?”

He gulped down a pocket of air that caught in his throat, a solid lump that refused to go all the way down.

“Mom!” Cora screamed.

He wanted his mom. He wanted his mom and his dad and his ded. He wanted them and they weren't there-

“Move back,” A voice called out, snapping over and beneath the rushing in his ears. “Give him some space.”

The world only got bigger when they stepped back, impossibly big, the walls growing up into forever.

“Stiles, remember our meditation exercise?” Peter's voice asked calmly, ignoring the chaos around them. Stiles stared at him, saw his shape shifting and vibrating apart. Peter repeated the question, shifting into their beginning breathing exercise. Over and over and over. Stiles' body fell into Peter's command, almost muscle memory by now.

“It's a panic attack,” Peter said calmly. “It's normal. It's okay Stiles. I know. It's okay.”

“Dad,” He croaked. “I-”

“Talia, call John. Get him on the phone, now.”

The phone hovered steadily next to his ear.

“Stiles, son?” His dad's voice asked, pitched with concern.

“Dad?”

“Stiles, I'm here buddy. Do you need me to come get you?”

He burst into tears.

* * *

The sound of glass shattering, an explosion of sound brought him running to the kitchen, the whole house practically vibrating with barely suppressed magic. He recognized it as his ded’s, was stunned by the weight, the ferocity of it pushing at him,

“You have a son!” His grandad shouted, the words carrying through the house. “He needs you to stop this!”

His dad looked hunched and miserable.

“I know you miss her. We all do. But you have a child that needs you right now. He doesn't understand this,” His ded added, hand sweeping over the counter where broken glass and liquid puddled together. “His attacks are only a symptom of the loss. They will fade in time.”

“I don't know how to do this,” His dad rasped. “Not without her.”

“You face it every day,” His grandad sighed, exhausted. “You keep going because he needs you to.”

* * *

“I miss her too sweetheart,” Talia murmured, arms tight around his, pinning them to his side to keep him from fighting her. “It's okay to be angry she's gone.”

“Why didn't you bite her?” Stiles shouted. “You could have saved her.”

“It doesn't work that way Stiles,” Talia tried, her own eyes watering. “If it did, I would have.”

“Ded said we can do anything, but it didn't work. I kept singing and it didn't work.”

“It's not your fault,” Talia promised, arms tight around him. “This was not your fault. Sometimes things are out of our hands.”

“I was supposed to save her,” Stiles whimpered into her shoulder, fingers balling up the fabric of her shirt, twisting and wringing it.

“No one could have,” Talia whispered into his hair. “Stiles, this wasn't your fault.”

* * *

“Nonsense, you're spending Thanksgiving here,” Talia said in a firm voice. “Even if you have to work that day, you'll have a good meal before you go in.”

“Okay,” His dad said, sounding defeated.

“I know Melissa is-I know it's just her and Scott. They're welcome to come too.”

* * *

Scott gaped at the huge house. It was his first time there, and Cora eyed him nervously.

“You're my best friends, you have to like each other,” Stiles reminded them both, rolling his eyes as he followed Talia and Melissa into the kitchen.

“Thank you again for inviting us,” Melissa told them. “And for watching Scott tonight.”

“It's not a problem,” Talia reassured her. “We like having a full house. And with Cora being homeschooled, it's good for her to be around kids her own age.”

Stiles reached up-

“Stiles, you can get one for each of you.”

“Yes ma'am,” He mumbled. “Knew Derek should have done it.”

* * *

“He needs his inhaler,” Stiles told them, fumbling for it in Scott's pocket. “He has asthma.”

Scott's hands couldn't grip the inhaler right, so he held it and waited for Scott to latch his mouth around it before squeezing it down.

“We have to take better care of you,” Laura declared.

“You don't have to take care of me,” Scott grumbled.

“That's what we do,” Cora informed him, sounding superior. It was something she was doing more of lately, ever since his ded had told her she’d become alpha. “We take care of each other.”

* * *

“It's just raining,” Stiles grumbled, glaring outside. “It's supposed to snow on Christmas.”

“Rain is good too,” His grandfather reminded him. “Rain feeds the linden tree and the grove.”

“When can I go there?”

“Not for a long time.”

“I miss mom.”

“I know. I miss her too,” His ded confided. “So does your father.”


	4. 2004

In any other world, he would have been happy to hear about Elise’s pregnancy, about how Peter would finally be a father. But it suddenly felt like his mother’s place had disappeared, and this little girl was already taking her place. Worse, because he could already hear her song, strong and full of life.

Maybe most of all, he hated that he could hear and feel their pity, knew they could sense his shame just as easily.

When his grandfather found him outside, he mumbled a halfhearted apology, unable to meet his gaze.

“Life follows death,” His grandfather told him, wiping the tears from his face. “It has always been that way, and it will always be that way.”

* * *

Elise went into labor while he was at Scott's. Laura tapped on Scott's window at two in the morning and Stiles woke Scott up. They left a note on Scott's pillow for his mom before sneaking out the back door. Laura was 'borrowing' her mom's car.

“Come on,” Cora huffed, grabbing his hand. “It's coming!”

* * *

His dad found them at the hospital at seven in the morning, piled in a sleepy tangle with the others in the waiting room and shook his head.

It was the first time he'd really smiled since his mom had died, and he offered a tired smile in return.

* * *

He sang, staring at the baby that had his mothers name but was not his mother. He promised her she would be safe, that she wouldn't get hurt like his mother had, that her life would be long. Like a fairy in a story giving gifts he named any number of protections.

“Gena!” His grandfather’s voice interrupted him. But the song was already done, woven into the rhythm of the infant’s heartbeat. He blinked, was stunned to see half of the family in the room with them, was surprised he hadn’t noticed them at all.

“What did he do?” Peter asked, not sounding angry so much as curious.

“He blessed her,” His grandfather said, staring at him. “It was a traditional song I sang for him and his mother, altered.”

“Altered how?”

“Though she has my-Klavdiya's name, she will not be a memory of who was lost, she won't be harmed like- She'll be safe. I think he was trying to keep a line between his mother and your daughter, and in doing so-He gave her his protection.”

* * *

Cora slipped into his room, immediately slumping into his bed, covering herself in his blankets. Knowing she wasn’t supposed to be out on her own, knowing her mom was going to lose it, he also knew she was aware of that, wouldn’t chance it for nothing.

“What's wrong?”

“Dad left,” Cora muttered. “He found another pack.”

Unsure of what to say because this had never happened, wasn’t supposed to happen, he got into the bed with her. When she finally started crying, he remained silent, knowing the minute he opened his mouth she’d stop.

Not that he knew what to say anyway.


	5. 2005

“You cannot keep secrets like this!” His ded roared, towering over Derek. Derek stared up at the man, tears leaving bright tracks down his cheeks. “She is a hunter, an Argent! They do not live by their code. They hunt wolves for sport!”

Stiles stared from around the corner, panic clutching his chest to try and calm the sharp pain of his heart twisting, the precursor to a panic attack. He didn't know about Argents, but he knew the word hunter, and he heard the fear beneath his ded's rage, lacing the words with a panic he hadn't felt in his ded since his mother had been in the hospital.

Cora shrank back even as his grandfather continued, Talia pacing the length of the kitchen. Laura, who was right behind him, didn't even tell them to leave, also watching the entire scene. The rebuke was peppered heavily with Russian, some of it Stiles understood, some he didn't. But he understood the whole of it, if not the reason for Derek to be on the receiving end of his ded's temper. He understood Kate was a hunter, and that Derek knew her. He understood that the Hales were in danger. Dots in his head connected and he realized the reason for secrets, felt the weight that he hadn't before.

That was all he needed to know really, that the Hales were in harm's way. The loss of his mom was still too fresh, hurt too much. It was a void, a place where she had always been and wasn't anymore. It was only too easy to imagine that hole widening to include the places the pack occupied.

Slipping away from the kitchen, around Laura and Cora, both who stayed as if they'd been glued to the spot, he crept through the house and outside.

There was a place his grandfather would show him someday, where their songs would work the best, but he didn't know where it was. Instead, he walked to tall oak tree that his grandfather called the first guard. It marked the beginning of the perimeter they renewed each month.

He didn't know as many songs as his ded, but he knew a few, knew enough. The Russian came haltingly at first as he tried to sing the way his ded did. It wasn't about picturing the place the song spoke of. It was about applying it to the world around him. He still didn't quite understand how it worked, but he sang about the cold winter wind that blew in from the frozen places, about snow that choked the earth and ravenous fires that destroyed homes, all the while imagining the hunters were each of those things. The words were choked as he tried to will the world to protect against them. He imagined the Hales safe in their home, protected from everything Winter stood for.

Name by name he invoked gods and figures from his ded's stories, each one a guard to stand around the perimeter, a tree or a figure, or both, to keep watch on his pack.

It was only later that he realized his ded was singing with him, his deep voice echoing into the forest around them. He felt the words, sonorous and lilting, reach out into the darkness and shaping something within it, like the darkness heard, like it was listening to them. It was the first time the world was an entity unto itself, that it felt like he was speaking to someone, asking them for help. It was certainly the first time it felt like someone or something was listening.

When his throat began to hurt from repeating the song, over and over, his ded grabbed him and held him tight to his chest, the white and red bristles of his ded's beard itching against his forehead. Stiles could sense his ded's exhaustion in every heavy step he took, bouncing in the strong arms of the old man.

“They're going to be safe now?” He asked, voice raspy. His ded nodded tightly, not bothering to go back inside the house, instead walking straight to the car and helping him into the front seat.

* * *

He wasn't allowed to go to the Hale's home for almost two months. Stiles hadn't thought his life could get worse after his mother's death, but each day proved how incredibly wrong he had been.

* * *

Derek was quiet, sullen, when he was finally allowed back to the Hale house. Cora seemed mostly unaffected, and everyone else seemed okay, although any time Derek came up, their faces took on a pinched, worried quality. Even Laura, who loved tormenting her younger brother, looked upset when asked about him. Derek was a perpetual sort of gloom, coming home from school only to hide in his room. It bothered Stiles, because Stiles was used to Derek being bossy and annoying, loud, like Laura. Their voices had always been distinct, comforting after his mother's death. But now Derek's entire being was muffled.

Stiles didn't know everything about pack, but he did know pack wasn't supposed to leave their own alone with they were sad. It was why Talia hadn't left his grandfather or father alone, why all of the Hale children had stayed with him as much as possible after his mother died. So, ignoring Cora and Laura, who were arguing over what to make for dinner since the adults were all out, he went to Derek's room.

Derek was curled up on his bed, back to the door. When Stiles called out his name, the werewolf didn't answer.

On some level, he knew it had to do with his ded yelling at Derek, that it all circled back to that. He didn't know why Derek was still so angry, even though the danger had passed. But he understood it wasn't him, that Derek wasn't angry at him.

“Go away,” The teenager growled. Stiles ignored it and climbed into the bed.

“Nope.”

“Go play with Cora.”

“Nope,” Stiles repeated, throwing a thin arm over Derek's waist and snuggling into his back. The werewolf turned, finally looking at him. Stiles recognized the blue of his beta eyes instead of his human ones, wondered what had twisted Derek up in enough knots to bring the color out.

“What are you doing?” The werewolf snapped.

“You did this when mom-When she died,” Stiles reminded him. Saying the words still hurt, but Derek had. Laura had explained it, later, that wolves were tactile, and touching, snuggling, hugging, all of it was mainly to comfort and reassure. It was a sign of caring. And even if he wasn't a wolf, well, Peter's wife wasn't either, and she was the exact same way with everyone. No one wanted for physical comfort in a house of wolves.

Derek didn't have a response for that, but he did relax a little, heaving a deep sigh.

“Everyone's okay,” Stiles mumbled. “I won't let anyone hurt any of you.”

Derek didn't say anything to that, either.

When he woke up, not even able to remember falling asleep, Cora had slipped into the room and cuddled into his side. Laura was on the other side of Derek, looking better than she had in weeks. Derek was crying quietly, the tremors running through his body being what had woken Stiles in the first place.

Stiles knew it was good to let him cry, even if he didn't exactly understand why Derek was crying.

* * *

“Ded?”

“Yes Gena?”

“Derek's eyes are different now.”

His grandfather sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “There are many stories about werewolves eyes.”

“Like alphas have red eyes?”

“Yes. I've seen yellow and blue, and once I saw green. Blue is-It's when something bad happens, and it leaves a mark on the werewolf. There are many theories, and most of them ring of truth for the werewolf in question. Overall, I think it's guilt.”

“Guilt?”

“Yes. Derek feels very guilty about something.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing, Gena. Nothing for you to be worried about.”


	6. 2006

When Laura packed up for college, Stiles and Cora asked if they could have her room and turn it into a den. With a cave. He had a recipe for paper mache and everything.

Talia rolled her eyes and told them that Laura would be coming back for holidays.

(Contrary to their previous excitement, he, Cora and Derek spent days sulking at Laura's absence. Talia indulged them and let them sleep in Laura's bed, cramped and quiet, for the next week.)

* * *

Jackson Whittemore was a jerk. Stiles knew that, Scott knew that.

He just wished everyone else knew that. Because everyone loved Jackson, even when he was being a jerk. The knees of his jeans were worn, a little patchy now from hitting the cement, and his palms were still stinging, the skin as patchy as the denim. That wasn't so bad though, he was used to getting small cuts and scrapes from playing in the woods. He was too clumsy and quick to avoid them.

The laughter was what really bothered him. How everyone had laughed at him when he'd pitched forward and tried to catch himself. Jackson's braying, which couldn't actually be called laughter, it was too hollow to Stiles' ears, still hurt all the same.

Ignoring the bus line, he started following the kids that walked home. He'd never walked home before, and directions were still something he wasn't all that good at, but he followed the general direction his bus normally went, walking behind the group as it slowly dwindled, children breaking off from the whole to find their ways home. Eventually he was alone, and he only vaguely recognized the neighborhood as one he'd passed through every morning and afternoon.

It was starting to get cold when Peter found him.

Stiles and Peter liked each other. Peter was never slow to join him in a prank or make his own suggestions on how to make the prank better. He was also smart, and he and his ded would talk for hours about the world and how the songs changed it, about wolves and how they came into being. Peter always had stories to share, and never made fun of him for having too much energy or needing to talk so quickly that his words sometimes tripped over themselves and into a stutter. If anything, Peter was his favorite of the older Hales.

“We've been looking for you Stiles,” Peter said quietly, falling into step beside him.

“Sorry,” Stiles muttered, staring at the sidewalk.

“How did you get hurt?”

“Fell.”

Peter didn't press, and Stiles didn't offer more information than that. But the wolf did take his hand and Stiles felt the pain in his knees and palms dissipate as Peter steered them gently back to the road. The car was warm, and when he got home, his dad was waiting for them. Stiles was pulled into a bonecrushing hug and told never to wander off alone again.

The next day, Jackson avoided him so completely Stiles was only aware of him because he was specifically watching out for the boy.


	7. 2007

“This sucks.”

“You suck,” Cora muttered, glaring at her cereal.

“Both of you,” Talia sighed. “They'll come back for the holidays, stop sulking.”

Stiles glared that the bowl of Lucky Charms like it had done something to personally offend him. And it wasn't the problem. Derek just had to go to school in Sacramento instead of Arcata, or somewhere else equally close. Just like Laura, who was all the way in San Francisco. Laura leaving had been bad enough, but Derek going too made the house feel too quiet, almost empty. Which was ridiculous, because over half a dozen people still lived there. But their songs were missing, the every day noises Stiles had let himself grow accustomed to. Both were as vital to him as Scott and Cora's noises were. Not that he'd ever, ever let Laura or Derek know that. They were insufferable enough as it was.

He didn't even have Cora's sense of smell to comfort him when they snuck into their rooms and slept on their beds. It was just-An absence.

“By the way Cora, we need to go shopping for you tomorrow.”

“Why?” Cora muttered, not looking up from the table.

“Because every girl needs new clothes for the first day of school,” Talia replied absently, not looking up from the newspaper in front of her.

Stiles was still processing the statement when Cora made a surprised, sharp sound. It hit just as he watched her hugging her mother tightly.

“Dude!” He shouted, his grin stretching his face so that it was almost painful. “Dude! You're coming to school with me!”

Both of them were chattering over one another, trying to make themselves heard and only half succeeding as they talked about how awesome it was going to be.

(When Cora showed up at school, she completely ignored everyone but him and Scott and ended up stealing his flannel shirt when they had different classes. Despite his knobby elbows and wrists being exposed, the theft made him smile, because it meant Cora found his scent safe, grounding.)


	8. 2008

“Stiles,” Cora whimpered, staring at his dad, who was staring at the kitchen counter with a mixture of disbelief and worry.

“Dad,” He started, shifting as Cora moved behind him in a belated attempt at hiding herself. “I can explain.”

“Does this have to do with your grandfather?” His dad asked slowly, eyes still on the counter, which was completely broken down the middle to expose the cabinet space beneath. Stiles knew, logically, it would be possible to explain that away as water damage or something equally mundane. It wouldn't be a great lie, but it would be more plausible than werewolves. But the blood and the complete lack of a wound on Cora's arm-There was no lie for that.

He nodded slowly. His ded had made him promise not to tell anyone, and his mother had made him promise a second time, saying that they'd tell his dad when the time was 'right'. Well, it probably wasn't the 'right' time, but he doubted they were going to be able wait any more.

“I think you should call him. And Mrs. Hale,” He added as an afterthought. Hopefully having Talia there would keep his dad and ded from breaking out in an argument, something they were both really, kind of worryingly, good at.

His dad nodded and pulled out his cellphone. Stiles listened as he called his ded first, then Talia. Cora didn't move from behind him, even when his dad disconnected the calls and sat down at the table.

“I'd like to hear you tell me, before they get here,” The sheriff finally said. Stiles felt Cora's hands fisted in the back of his shirt, and he blew out a breath, not entirely sure why she was afraid. _He_ was afraid because he knew his dad would hate that they'd been hiding things from him. But the sheriff wouldn't hurt Cora, wouldn't hurt any of the Hales. Stiles knew that. His father was a good man, his mother would never have loved him otherwise.

“Some of the Hales are werewolves,” Stiles said, voice blunt. He was proud that it hadn't cracked, which had been an on and off problem for awhile.

His dad stared at him.

“Werewolves?”

Stiles nodded slowly.

“And you-”

“Not a werewolf,” Stiles interrupted, seeing the wrong dots connecting already. “Ded says we're vedun. Sort of like magicians?” He tried. There was a distinct difference between magicians and vedun, but not one he knew how to explain in english.

“Magicians.”

“Not pulling a rabbit out of a hat or making gold or anything. Just um, I don't know everything yet. Ded could explain it better.”

“Magic and werewolves,” His dad said again. Stiles nodded slowly.

“Mom said we'd tell you, then-” He shrugged helplessly. Mentioning his mother's death was something they didn't do. None of them could handle it. It was the one thing his dad and grandad actually agreed on. “Dad, I'm sorry.”

“It's, it's not alright. I should have been told, but you're children. You were doing what you were told. Go upstairs.”

“Dad-” Stiles whimpered, afraid his dad was going to separate him from Cora, from the Hales.

“Both of you. Don't worry about this, alright? I'm going to talk to your grandfather and Talia. Just-Go upstairs.”

Stiles pulled Cora behind him, bolting out of the room, shame making his stomach churn. Cora was clinging to him, obviously afraid.

“I'm sorry,” She whispered into his ear. They were both sitting against his door so she could hear when Talia and his ded arrived, hopefully they would know what was being said.

“It's not your fault. It was going to happen sooner or later,” He murmured. It had been an accident, and there was no taking it back. Not that he would. He'd wanted his dad to know the truth, and his ded had always said 'not yet'. Well, there was no shoving werewolves back in the closet, not once somebody knew. And even if his dad had trouble accepting reality, Stiles was positive the sheriff wouldn't hurt the Hales, not just because they were werewolves.

Fifteen minutes later, Cora stiffened and whispered that her mother was there with his ded.

After that, for about a solid ten minutes, Stiles didn't need to ask Cora what his dad was saying, because he could hear it. His ded and Talia were uncharacteristically silent while his dad yelled. But throughout all of it, his dad only said he was angry that it had been kept a secret, that he'd had a right to know from the beginning since his son had been in the thick of it.

After that things quieted down and Cora relayed the conversation, awe tinging her words with breathlessness when she said that her mother admitted to making a mistake and apologizing.

Stiles was more shocked when his grandfather did.

After that, his dad came upstairs and found them scrambling to look like they'd been doing anything but listening.

“Cora, your mom's going to take you home,” His dad started, and Stiles couldn't stop the noise of protest that erupted. “You can come over tomorrow. I know there's no way I can separate you two without throwing one of you in a holding cell.”

“Technically she could probably bend the bars and bust me out.”

His dad opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, shaking his head.

“I'll see you tomorrow Cora,” He sighed. Cora tried to slip past him before his dad grabbed her and pulled her into a one armed hug. “Nothing changes kid. Except no more breaking my counters, alright?”

Cora nodded once and offered a smile before darting from the room.

“So,” Stiles started, not entirely sure what to say anymore.

“We are going out for burgers and curly fries. And then we're going to talk about everything you haven't told me for the past few years.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. Starting with how you managed to keep a secret for so long,” His dad added with a smirk, letting Stiles know that everything was going to be okay.

“Dad!”


	9. 2010

When he was fifteen, he stopped focusing on Lydia, mostly because Cora sort of hated her, and Lydia sort of hated her back. And anyone that hated Cora wasn't worth chasing like an idiot, genius or not.

When he started watching Danny, he didn't think anything of it until he realized he actually wanted to kiss Danny, felt strange and jittery and hot all over. He'd never actually felt that way about Lydia, and it was a little disconcerting to suddenly feel all those things his dad had talked awkwardly about when he'd brought home his permission slip for sex ed. Especially when his dad had always mentioned in the context of 'a pretty girl' and not 'a really hot dude'. Cora blurted out that they should date. In front of Scott.

Stiles' big bisexual freakout wasn't so much a freakout as it was a reason for Laura to scream 'I knew it' over the phone.

(He and Danny did date for a few weeks, holding hands shyly and sneaking kisses when the thought no one was looking. It fell apart when Jackson insulted Scott and Stiles couldn't let it slide. When Scott tried to blame himself for the ensuing madness, Stiles maintained that the resulting black eye and breakup were worth it.)

* * *

Stiles stared at the words.

_The murder of an innocent is the cause of a werewolf's true eyes to turn blue. The only way this will ever change is if they become an alpha, and take red eyes. But if they fall from alpha, their eyes will become blue again, and not yellow._

The angry denial wasn't enough to overwhelm the nausea churning in his stomach, battery acid eating through him and leaving nothing behind but an aching hollow.

* * *

“Ded?”

“What is it?”

“Did Derek kill someone?”

His grandfather looked up, eyes narrowing. “Why do you ask?”

“The book you gave me, it talked about eye color.”

“Whatever it says is simply a theory. The only thing we know for sure is an alpha's eyes are red.”

“Did he kill someone?”

“No.”

It sounded like a truth, but he also knew his grandfather could lie when it suited him; they'd hidden the truth about werewolves and magic from his father for years. “Ded-”

“Derek's eyes are not because of death. It is something private for him, and painful.”

“So I can't ask him and you won't tell me.”

“If he ever chooses to tell you, it must be on his terms. Others will make assumptions about what his eyes mean. Do not be one of them.” The admonishment was as clear as the command. Suddenly he felt bad for asking at all, implying he even doubted enough for the need.

“Okay. Then can you tell me your theory about blue eyes?”

“In general terms, if you give me your word you won't broach the subject with Derek, or anyone else within the pack.”

That wasn't an unprecedented request, or even command. But- “Not even Talia?”

“Not even Talia. We have our secrets Gena, they have their own. You are not pack.”

It was a slap in the face, made him want to lash out and say something cruel, as cruel as his grandfather's words felt.

“We're pack.”

“No, Gena, we are not, and we cannot be pack. We must maintain a certain distance, always. Our rules make it so.”

It sounded like a truth but felt like a lie, his heart rejecting the concept in it's entirety, nothing left to doubt. It was wrong, and he couldn't fathom how his ded could make it sound so matter of fact.

“But they're family.”

His grandfather made a quiet, rumbling sound, something undecipherable and foreign; Stiles couldn't remember his grandfather ever looking so tired.

“Gena, I was part of a pack once. I have seen other heralds that were pack, and it always ends badly.”

“It doesn't have to.”

“Only if you shirk your duties. One will interfere with the other. You cannot be biased and remain fair.”

“But-”

“If one of them does kill an innocent, what would you do?” His grandfather asked abruptly.

He mentally stumbled and tripped over the question because it didn't make sense. “They wouldn't-”

“If they did. If they killed unprovoked, what would you do?”

“They wouldn't,” He repeated, confident in the words.

His grandfather shook his head. “This is why you are not sworn yet, and why you cannot be pack. If one of them kills without just cause, we cannot allow them to live. If one of them loses themselves to their feral selves, they cannot be allowed to live. If-”

“But that won't happen,” Stiles protested.

“It can and it has. The Hales are no more immune than any other wolf. We are not just their advisers, Gena. We are the agents of their secret. We must protect them from the world's notice, including hunters. And we must protect the world from them, should it come to it. That is part of what we are.”

“That's bullshit. They're my family. I'm not going to treat them like fucking Old Yeller and take them out back and shoot them!”

His grandfather didn't bat an eyelash at his language, didn't even frown. Instead he looked not just tired, but sympathetic, as if he understood exactly what Stiles felt. It was bullshit, the expression, a mask; he had just told him they killed wolves. He didn't get to look like he felt bad about it.

“I'm going home.”

“Your father-”

“I'll walk.”

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

Talia sat on the sofa, gaze pensive. “Your grandfather told me about your conversation.”

He fidgeted, running a hand over the short buzz of his hair. He'd shaved it again, not entirely sure why he'd done it after so long. It prickled against the callused flesh on his fingertips, made his palm itch, triggering a scalp itch that he scratched while he waited for Talia to continue.

“While I can't say I approve of him telling you now instead of waiting until you're older, he's right.”

“How can you say that?” He demanded angrily, up on his feet and walking behind the couch, giving himself the room to pace.

“Because the emissary before your grandfather was forced to execute one of us. My cousin. Something went wrong for him, and he became unstable. My mother couldn't bring herself to end his suffering, even to stop the threat he posed. No one else could either. So the emissary did.”

“But we're pack.”

“I know. But the possibility is one you have to accept. It's not fair, I know. But because of our instincts, hurting pack is difficult, hurting family is almost impossible. So we need you to do the right thing for us.”

That she didn't deny that they were pack, that she said it with an ease that could only come from truth, made hearing everything else that much harder.

“The world is not always a good place; bad things happen to good people all of the time. I'm sorry you were forced to realize your role in such matters so early. If I'd had a say, it would have waited.”

He didn't understand, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. “I need to think about this.”

“I understand,” Talia told him, voice heavy with a gravity she rarely used, especially with him.

* * *

“Cora says you're not talking. Scott thinks you're dying,” Derek said.

“Isn't it a little weird for you to be creeping into my room in the middle of the night?” Stiles retorted.

“You were awake.”

“Shouldn't you be in Sacramento?”

“You shaved your head. You're not talking.”

“I'd've thought that would make people happy.”

“I'm hungry.”

Stiles opened his mouth for another sarcastic comment, except it was for whatever Derek was supposed to have said, and not for 'I'm hungry'.

“Your dad's on shift tonight, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you make any dinner? Leftovers?”

“No.”

“Come on. We're going out.”

“It's two in the morning!”

“McDonalds is open.”

His stomach gave a plaintive growl, as if deciding the argument for them. Dragging his feet, he followed Derek back out to his car and dropped sullenly into the seat. Derek didn't push him, didn't speak as they drove into town, finding the lone open McDonalds. When he said nothing, Derek ordered for him and drove in the opposite direction of home, out into the preserve. For a moment he thought Derek might be taking them to the Hale house and started panicking, right until he took the turnoff to go to one of the lesser known overlooks.

"Talk or eat," Derek commanded, getting out of the car and sitting on the hood. It was only because he didn't want to look like a five year old throwing a tantrum that he followed suit.

“Why are you even here?” He asked, watching Derek take an impressively sized bite out of his burger.

“Cora and Scott have been freaking out and even Laura has no idea what's going on," He managed. 

“So you pulled the short straw?”

Derek made a frustrated sound. “No, dumbass. I'm worried. I asked mom and she wouldn't say anything, just that you had some stuff to sort out. No one's saying what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“I'm fifteen. I'm supposed to be a moody asshole.”

“Blowing up at Cora and Scott isn't being a moody asshole,” Derek snapped, tossing the half eaten burger in the bag. “It's not like you.”

“Are we pack?” Stiles asked abruptly.

“I-Of course we are. Is that what's worrying you?”

Stiles lifted one shoulder in a half hearted shrug.

“Come on, you have to talk to someone.”

“Ded said I can't be.”

Derek's mouth opened, stayed that way for a moment, his eyes glazed over. “Why?”

“Because emissaries have to be ready to-If someone-” His voice wobbled dangerously. “I can't-”

The panic attack was only the culmination of weeks of fear and paranoia; for all that, it still felt like a skyscraper collapsing, from his brain down to his lungs, crumpling. Crippled, he tried to inhale and couldn't.

Derek was counting, repeating a steady rhythm of breathing, leading by example. Stiles fought for the first inhale, pulled it in like the world was a vaccuum, determined to pull what little he had out. The inside of his throat was raw, the first inhale was only two seconds and hurt. He held it for too long, exhaled shakily out of time, tried to catch up to Derek's steady, unfailing rhythm.

“You haven't had one in awhile.”

“Third this month.”

Derek cursed, vivid, colorful words scraping over Stiles' consciousness. “Why didn't you tell your dad?”

“I can't tell him,” Stiles gasped, jerking away, trying to get out of Derek's space, Derek out of his. Derek's hands kept him anchored firmly in place, wouldn't allow an increment of distance.

“Why?”

“Because he won't-He's a cop.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I might have to kill someone!”

The words filled the spare emptiness between them, the minute gaps where Derek wasn't touching him. It felt like a wall was being built, brick by brick from the base. At fifteen he still understood enough to know how dramatic, how dumb the declaration sounded, except it was the truth, wasn't it? If his grandfather and Talia were both warning him-

“Why would you have to kill someone?”

“Ded said that if someone in the pack does something, or goes feral, heralds have to handle it. Your mom, she told me it's almost impossible for an alpha to hurt family. Which means I would have to. That it's my job,” He added, the words pitching, cracking on the quickly bubbling hysteria. “That's why I can;'t be pack. He said it always ends badly.”

“You are pack,” Derek snapped, voice sharp. “No matter what he says, you've been pack for years.”

“How can I be when-”

“It's no different from the alpha doing what they need to do to protect the pack,” Derek interjected. “If an alpha can do it and be pack, you can too.”

“How am I supposed to hurt one of you?” He demanded hoarsely.

“If one of us does something that bad, we're not ourselves anymore. We wouldn't be the person you care about.”

“That's bullshit,” Stiles snapped, pulling out of Derek's grasp and stepping away, the back of his legs hitting the front of the car. He sat down, heard something scratch unpleasantly. “Don't tell me people can't come back from it, that they're just gone after doing something wrong.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair, spiking it up in a dozen messy directions. “You're right, that is bullshit. It's what people tell themselves so they feel better when they watch their loved ones go to jail.”

Stiles hugged himself, unsure of what to say, having nothing but his own bitterness to keep him from giving in to panic.

“But it would keep the pack safe. If someone crosses that line, it could bring hunters. They could turn on the pack.”

“That's not fair,” Stiles snapped.

“You're right, it's not fair. But that's how it is.”

“Then I can't be pack.”

“Why not?” Derek demanded. “Why can't you be pack and a herald?”

“Who would want me after I did something like that? Laura would never forgive me if I had to kill you. Christ, you'd never forgive me if I had to kill someone.”

“I'd be grateful, so would Laura.”

“Grateful?” Stiles squawked. “How do you fucking figure that?”

“Because it would mean we wouldn't have to.”

Stiles gaped.

“If you do it, you take on the burden. And yeah, that's unfair. But there are people our instincts won't let us kill, no matter how badly it needs to be done. Forcing ourselves to ignore that could break us in a way we can't come back from.”

Stiles sniffed, realized his face was wet again, that Derek's voice was still carrying from where he'd been shouting.

“I'm sorry,” He muttered, scrubbing his face. “It's a shitty thing, and I have no idea why they brought it up. You're too goddamn young to think about shit like this.”

“I don't think there's ever really a good time to bring it up,” Stiles sniffed.

“I can think of better times than fifteen,” Derek huffed, moving to lean on the car, their shoulders brushing. “I know that it's not right, asking you to take on something that big. But it would help the pack. If the alpha can't do it, none of the other werewolves will be able to either. Other humans couldn't do it, just a herald. So you'd probably be saving someone like Elise or Scott. It's small compensation, but for situations like that, you have to take what you can get.”

“How can I be pack if I execute someone?”

“Because you're pack, we'd know you had reason. That's-It's important.”

“What, that it hurts me to do it? That it would fucking kill me?”

“Yeah,” Derek answered bluntly. “If you had to do it, I'd trust your reasons. I trust you. Especially because it hurts you. It should hurt to do something like that.”

It was better than anything Talia had said, certainly more comforting than his grandfather's alternative.

“I'm really fucking tired.”

“You should really stop swearing.”

“I think I'm allowed, given the circumstances.”

Derek allowed him to fiddle with the radio, moving through stations, never settling on anything, never finishing a song before switching it again. Even when Derek finally parked in front of the house, he kept switching the stations.

“You want me to call Scott or Cora?”

“Can you just stay?” He asked, feeling small and stupid and young compared to Derek. But Derek nodded, following him into the house.

Derek felt too big, almost foreign, but just right, just big enough to blanket him and keep the world at bay.

* * *

Stiles sat down across from his grandfather. “I understand why I'd have to do it,” He said, keeping his words even. They might even be true, or at least, they might be true someday. “But I'm pack. This doesn't change that.”

His grandfather looked sad. “Gena, what you're saying, you don't understand the pain it will cause.”

“Shouldn't it hurt?” He demanded sharply. “Shouldn't it affect me? I'm supposed to advise them. I'm supposed to care about them. Shouldn't it hurt me to execute one of them, even if there's cause?”

“Can you make yourself follow through if you love them?”

“It's because I love all of them that I'll do the right thing.”


	10. 2011

When he was sixteen, he got his license and the jeep. He, Scott and Cora went as far as they could in it, even sneaking out at night to drive to an all night diner just because they could. They were caught, of course, because his dad was sheriff and the deputy getting coffee recognized them. But still, he felt like any other normal teenage boy, and he knew he and Cora both needed that feeling of normalcy, that sense of the mundane in their lives.

It was also when Cora kissed Scott for the first time.

Three weeks later, Scott and Cora called him at the same time, because - _holy shit my eyes changed and my claws Stiles what do I do_ \- and - _Stiles Cora's eyes changed and there are holes in my bed Stiles she ran away I think she hates me what do I do_ -.

* * *

“Dad, I need your help.”

“Go ahead and shoot.”

“I need you to help me convince Talia and ded that letting Scott and Melissa into the loop is a good idea.”

His dad eyed him shrewdly. “Does this have anything to do with Scott sulking and Melissa having to buy him a new mattress?”

“Yes. They were making out and Cora accidentally-Her claws left some holes in the mattress.” Wow, it was so incredibly awkward to talk about this. “Scott didn't see anything, but she freaked.”

“And you want to tell Melissa because?”

“Because she's his mom, and if he's in the thick of werewolves, she should know. He's been pack for almost as long as I have, dad. And Melissa is a nurse, she could be helpful to them.”

“Helpful? They heal like Wolverine.”

“Elise doesn't. And what if they get in a car accident or something? If they go to the hospital, they need someone to deal with the records.”

“ _I didn't hear that_ ,” His dad groaned. “Stiles-”

“They deserve to know dad, and you know it. Besides, it might help Elise and Talia, having another mom they can talk to. Someone that gets it.” He saw his dad's expression fuzz. “And if we don't, I'm going to kill my two best friends to put them out of our collective misery. I made charts, dad. Don't make me get them out.”

“Charts.”

“Charts,” Stiles repeated ominously, knowing he'd won.

* * *

“Packs have humans,” Stiles said, facing his grandfather. It wasn't the first time he'd faced his grandfather down, but it was the first time he'd ever done it with Talia in the room. Having an audience made it feel worse, especially because it was Talia. “Melissa and Scott have both been friends to the pack for years. Scott's going to find out sooner or later, he loves Cora-”

“They are children,” His grandfather dismissed. Stiles ignored the surge of rage at that and continued on, his voice steady.

“He's going to find out, and he can't lie to Melissa. Asking him to is wrong anyway. Both of them are good people. They won't expose us.”

“What if Cora and Scott break up, or have a fight?”

“If they break up, do you really see Scott disappearing?” His dad asked, almost sounding amused. “And you're really doing a disservice to that boy if you think he'll tell just because he's upset. Scott's better than that.”

“It will also help if there's ever a-a car accident or something,” He added, breath hitching. “Or if someone breaks their arm at school or whatever. Melissa can help fudge the paperwork.”

“That _is_ a consideration,” Talia admitted. “One that can't be completely ignored. Melissa is a good friend, and her son has grown up with us. The longer she's in our company, the higher a chance there is she'll find out anyway. It would be better for her to find out in a controlled setting.”

“So we tell them?”

“It doesn't escape my notice that Cora and Scott are your primary reason for doing this,” Talia told him, her lips quirked in a smile. “But you've made very valid points.”

“Cora doesn't sulk at you,” He muttered, rolling his eyes. “And I have Scott doing it too.”

* * *

His grandfather finished his explanation, not that he would have noticed. He was too busy watching his best friends try to stare at eachother without making it completely obvious. It was an utter failure, but it was easier than listening to The Talk, which sounded a hell of a lot more like a lecture.

“Werewolves,” Melissa finally said, tracing a water ring on her kitchen table and then tapping in a rhythm that gave away her anxiety.

“I know it seems a little farfetched-” His dad started.

“No, no werewolves makes more sense than some of the other answers I came up with,” Melissa told them, shaking her head. “So all of you-”

“I'm not,” Stiles told her. “I'm-”

“Vedun,” His dad interjected when he paused. “Magic, apparently.”

“That-Okay. Magic too.”

He followed Scott upstairs, Cora on his heels. When he found his best friend, Scott had claimed his corner of the small bed. He was tempted to drop onto the chair and avoid the place where things had happened, but he leaned into Scott instead.

“I'm sorry,” He mumbled. No answer was forthcoming.

“Scott,” Cora said, voice quiet.

“You guys hid this from me?”

“We had to,” Stiles tried. "Even dad didn't know for a long time."

"I wanted you to know," Cora admitted. "Since we were kids."

“My girlfriend is X-23,” Scott said, bouncing.

“Without the emotional trauma,” Stiles huffed, grateful the world righted itself so easily.

* * *

He was still slogging to the house, Scott at his side and equally bogged down in mud when they heard the commotion. Cora was only halfway covered in mud, her right side plastered.

“Avery, shower, now!” Melissa called. “Scott, you and Stiles better not be covered in mud too!”

They rounded the corner, heads ducked in twin expressions of shame. Half of the pack was watching them. "We were looking for a Thanksgiving turkey? Avery thought she heard one in the preserve."

"I'm not going to ask how looking for a turkey got all four of you covered in mud," Talia said, staring them both down.

"It's been raining for the past two weeks."

"I said I wasn't asking," Talia sighed.

“We could blast them with the hose,” Derek offered.

“Creep,” Laura muttered, rolling her eyes. “You could just ask him.”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“I never fail to be amazed at how they regress,” Talia sighed, rubbing her forehead as she regarded them. “I hope you all had fun.”

“We did,” Cora said, unrepentant.

Derek stared at him like he was something under a microscope. An impish urge overcame him and he winked at Cora, then tilted his head. Seeing her agreement, they launched themselves at the older siblings. Laura's screech echoed in his skull, almost drowning out Derek's angry sputtering.

“Get off of me,” Derek sputtered.

Stiles hugged his back tighter.

“You're such a dick.”

“Oh no,” Stiles bemoaned, clutching his chest. “Avery, Derek's calling me mean names!”

Avery was laughing, utterly delighted by the scene. “Derek, don't call Stiles names! You're an immature jock that's just mad he can't-”

“Peter _stop_ feeding her lines!” Derek shouted, finally throwing him off and bolting into the house.

"I expect everyone to be clean by dinner," Talia informed them, sharing a look with Melissa.


	11. 2012

When Stiles was seventeen, Derek moved back.

Stiles felt the same jittery, hot feeling in his stomach when he saw Derek. He knew what it was, and he tried really hard to ignore it. Peter was a dick and made that impossible because any time he could, he made innuendo and comments and just would not shut the fuck up in general. His position as Stiles' favorite was lost to Elise, because Elise would smack him any time she was around and he was being a dick.

Stiles spent more time away from the Hale house than he had in years.

* * *

Stiles glared at his ceiling. It wasn't that he resented Scott and Cora finally taking 'the step' or whatever. If anything, he was happy that all of the sexual tension had finally broken. But really, it was a little ridiculous how often they said they were coming over to his place to hang out or study, only to disappear to wherever for their 'alone time'. Especially when they never specified if they were actually going to hang out or if he was their cover for the night. It had gotten to the point where he made two sets of plans, one for if they stayed and one for if they went.

The only silver lining he was really capable of savoring was that they were both positive Talia and Melissa had no idea. Which...Yeah, those two were idiots if they thought their moms didn't know. He was just waiting for the moment they revealed their knowledge, imagining any number of embarrassing scenarios, each more unlikely than the last. Still, he had a vivid, if slightly vindictive, imagination and far too much free time.

He was just beginning to turn on his x-box for a lonely night of murdering things when his dad knocked on his door.

“Come in!” He called, digging through his games. The door opened and closed. The smell of pizza immediately hit his nose and he turned, rebuke for his dad ready. “Da-Derek?”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“It was this or babysitting,” Derek told him, dropping the box of pizza on the desk and divesting himself of his leather jacket.

“How thoughtful,” Stiles muttered.

“About as thoughtful as hormonal teenagers using their best friend as a cover,” Derek countered.

“How has your whole family not blown the lid off of that, by the way?” Stiles snorted, leaning over to pull the box of pizza into his lap. “I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face.”

“Mom wants us to respect Cora's space and let her admit to it on her own.”

“Seriously?” He choked out, grinning. “Dude, you and Laura had better be fucking with them at least. Like, dropping innuendo or something. Just enough to keep them wondering if you know or not.”

“Aren't they your friends?” Derek demanded archly, claiming the computer chair for his own and stealing a slice of pizza from the box.

“Well yeah, but I'm also a dick,” Stiles snorted. “And it's not like I can do anything, I officially know. Shit, they use me as their cover story,” He added, rolling his eyes. “Seriously though, for me? I could have gone to the Jungle tonight, but no, stuck here, covering for those two saps. I need vengeance, even if it's only by proxy.”

“You're too young to get into the Jungle,” Derek muttered, glaring at him.

“Not when the bouncer thinks I have pretty lips,” Stiles countered, puckering for effect before settling on a smirk.

“Your dad is the sheriff.”

“And what dad doesn't know won't hurt him. Dude, are you seriously going to lecture me about going to a club? I promise I watch my drinks and don't go home with strangers. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Then why go?”

“Because, it just-” Stiles started, then shrugged. “It's like hearing a hundred songs at once.”

Derek looked mildly confused and Stiles heaved a sigh. Peter was the only one of the Hales that had any real interest in what he and his grandfather did, and he had no idea how to explain what was mostly intuition.

“Like what ded is teaching me, about hearing the world and people and everything. Sometimes the songs are good, like at your house. Sometimes they're, I dunno, discordant. Nails on a chalkboard. Like Harris' class,” He muttered dourly. The song surrounding Harris was almost always unpleasant. “And at the club it's both, but mostly it's good, you know? Like, it's chaos and everything, but there's an underlying beat to it.”

Derek was watching him intently, and Stiles felt the tips of his ears burning.

“Anyway, it's fun too, dancing and everything, even though I suck at it.”

“You want to go?”

Stiles choked on the bite of pizza that he'd had the misfortune to be trying to swallow.

“Dude, the Jungle is a gay club.”

“And? It's not like we have anything better to do tonight. Unless you want to play video games.”

“There's nothing wrong with video games,” Stiles snapped more harshly than he intended. But Derek-Derek in a gay club? No. Not safe. Not happening. Derek in a gay club would be like blood in a tank full of sharks. Any hope of actually relaxing in the club would be completely ruined by watching drunk assholes hit on him all night.

“Didn't say there was, that's sort of what I wanted to do anyway,” Derek admitted, toeing off his shoes and propping his feet on the desk and wolfing down the rest of the slice of pizza. “Clubs are okay, but the smells are always really-” He wrinkled his nose and Stiles grimaced to cover the smile that wanted to erupt.

“Yeah, I bet,” He muttered. “Borderlands cool?”

Derek nodded and caught the controller while reaching for another slice of pizza.


	12. 2013

The flame slipped from the wick and into his palm. He hummed at it, smiling at the warmth that seeped into his flesh, barely hotter than his own body temperature. Chancing a quick glance at Derek, he watched the werewolf's eyes focused on the fire in his hand. Looking back, he altered his tone and watched it begin to shift, from red to yellow, yellow to blue. He let it stay that way, reminded of the blue Derek's eyes flashed when his wolf was close to the surface.

“Fire is ded's favorite,” Stiles admitted, splitting his attention between the fire in his hand and Derek. “It's what he's been teaching me lately.”

“It's amazing,” Derek murmured, moving closer. Stiles saw his nostrils flare as he sniffed at the flame. “I can't really smell anything,” He admitted.

“It's not burning off of the wick anymore, just the energy I pull from the currents,” Stiles explained quietly. “Ded's been showing me how to use them, a little.” And it had only made his training more difficult. More and more he wished there was a song for everything, only to find that it was his will and whatever words he felt appropriate to guide him. To say that he had a dictionary worth of words from a few different languages stuck in his head would be accurate, but that didn't necessarily mean he was articulate.

“Stars burn different colors because of the chemicals in them,” Derek offered, apropos of-Well, Stiles wasn't sure what, probably nothing. It was just a trick, albeit a useful one. Understanding how fire worked and learning how to control it would mean that he'd be safe from it, at least in theory. His ded had pointed out that in Russia, knowing how to make a flame warmer, bigger or smaller, ad naseum, was a survival tool.

Nevermind that he was in Beacon Hills, California, where snow was an aberration, and physical manifestations were draining in the extreme.

“It looks like you reached into the sky and pulled one down.”

Stiles looked at Derek, was startled to see the werewolf staring at him with something akin to wonder but edged in- His concentration slipped and he saw a flash of red before he screeched, the flame completely gone and a red scorch mark branding his palm, throbbing and angry. Pain radiated out from the center of his hand to the tips of his fingers, down his wrist and all the way up his arm.

“Fuck!” He shouted, making the mistake of clenching his hand into a fist before biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making the pained sound that wanted to come out. It stayed in his throat, a high pitch that sounded like a whine.

“Give me your hand,” Derek commanded, pulling at his wrist. Stiles complied, barely felt Derek's fingers prying his hand open to inspect the damage. Even as he cursed the pain began to fade, the knives dragging over his skin fading to a dull throb. Black veins stood out on Derek's forearm, and Stiles recognized the technique from all the times he'd hurt himself as a child with Cora and Talia had helped him.

“Does it hurt you to do that?” He asked, seeing Derek's jaw clenching and relaxing rhythmically.

“Not really.”

“That sounds like a lie,” Stiles muttered, trying to pull his wrist free. Derek's hand only held more tightly. “Damnit Derek, I'm fine now. I just need to-”

“We're going to the hospital.”

“What? No!” Stiles sputtered, already being pulled to his feet. “Dude Melissa will call dad!”

“And?” Derek snapped, leading him out of the room. Stiles knew it was either follow or be dragged behind the werewolf and stumbled to follow, wrist still caught in Derek's hold.

“He'll tell ded and ded will bitch at me for being careless again.”

“Again?” Derek snapped, clicking the button on his keyfob to unlock his car. Stiles grumbled and got in, watching his friend circle the sedan and get in. “Stiles, again?” Derek prompted, pulling out of the driveway.

“I accidentally burned a hole through his desk,” He muttered, feeling the flush start at the base of his neck and go all the way to his hair. “It was the first time, alright? I was excited.” Too late he realized just how bad that sounded and clenched his eyes shut, almost wished for the pain in his hand to return so he could focus on that instead.

Derek, in a rare show of mercy, didn't tease him for it as they drove through Beacon Hills.

As expected, Melissa called his dad and gave him a stern lecture about screwing around in the kitchen. The doctor set him up with some minor painkillers and a cream before kicking him out.

“This sucks,” Stiles groaned, knowing he was in for a lecture when he got home. Magic didn't bother his dad, exactly, but it was one of those things they didn't talk about all that often. Usually any incidents related to his training were reported to his grandfather, and Stiles knew he was in for it the next day.

“It'll be fine,” Derek told him. “I'm sorry I distracted you.”

“What? Dude, no problem. I should have been paying attention.”

“I-”

“Shut up, Derek,” Stiles groaned, shuffling down into the seat. The pain was beginning to come back and the last thing he wanted to do was revisit why, exactly, he'd been so distracted. That way laid madness, and contrary to what everyone seemed to think, he wasn't enough of a masochist to pursue that line of thinking.

Derek didn't follow him back inside, but Stiles noticed the werewolf waited until the door was closed for a couple of minutes to leave.

(Three weeks later his ded was still grumbling about his lack of focus and Derek was still giving his hand a guilty look from time to time. But the resulting scar bloomed, solid in the center and ending in jagged points, a north star in miniature. Stiles liked it, rubbed his finger across it and privately thought it proved that he was supposed to be around werewolves, whether he was one or not. Derek's words, he reminded himself, had absolutely nothing to do with it.)

* * *

“Come on, Derek!” Cora whined. “It's Stiles birthday!”

“Yeah Der-Der,” Laura teased. “Even I'm going.”

“Yeah, to buy me drinks,” Stiles cajoled. “Come on Derek,” He tried, attempting to mimic Scott's puppy face. Derek glowered and he tried harder, surprised when Derek's lips quirked in a grin.

“You look like an idiot,” He muttered, eyes going to the ceiling. “That's fucking spooky, stop.”

“Only if you say yes”

“Fine,” Derek huffed, rolling his eyes. “I need to go get dressed.”

“Dude, jeans are totally fine, and you can just pull off your shirt. No way Clive will turn you away.”

“It worries me that you know the bouncer's name,” Laura told him. Derek was already walking upstairs, leaving them to wait in the living room.

“The bouncer loves me, although he's been waiting for me to turn eighteen for real. Maybe you guys could play meat shield for me?” He begged, thinking about the very big, very burly bouncer that had been letting him into the club for the past two years. There was something a little creepy about a guy waiting two years just to get into bed with him. The fact that he was waiting for him to be eighteen was a moot point, everyone knew who his dad was.

“You could always ask Derek,” Laura told him, a sly smile stretching her lips into an altogether too feline smile. Stiles felt himself pulling a face and shrugging. As much as he wanted Derek there for his birthday, he knew the beta would probably be dancing with other, much hotter guys.

“Cheer up Stiles, I'm sure you'll find some birthday tail,” Laura assured him. “And I, for one, want at least one dance with you.”

“I can't dance,” He muttered, looking at the ceiling.

“Bet you can,” Laura teased. “All that singing and everything, you totally have rhythm.”

He couldn't stop himself from glaring at her. Only the blind and deaf would have missed the innuendo and her accompanying smirk.

Anything he could have countered with was lost when Derek walked in, wearing jeans and a muscle tee. And his leather jacket.

“Dude, it's August,” Stiles muttered, refusing to look at him dead on. Laura snickered and pulled him to his feet.

“Have fun,” Peter called out from the kitchen. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Remind me what those two things are again,” Stiles chortled, reminding himself that it was his birthday, that he was finally eighteen and would be showing his id proudly at the door. Laura hoisted him off of his feet and threw him over her shoulder, bouncing him when he tried to wriggle down. Cora and Scott crowed with laughter as Laura leapt and spun all the way to the car, making him dizzy. When she finally sat him down he was wobbling and leaned against her camarro.

They blasted music all the way to the club. Stiles suspected it was so Laura didn't have to hear the bitching about how cramped the backseat was with three people. The doorman eyed him hungrily when he presented his id and he slipped in, far too aware of the stare boring into his back. The three pitched growls made him feel marginally safer.

All of that faded the moment he stepped into the club. Like hitting a solid wave of sound, he felt the varying melodies already teasing at his consciousness. It was his grandfather's idea of hell and his own personal heaven, the cacophony of melodies and beats. Laura grabbed his hand and dragged him to the bar. He couldn't even hear what she ordered, already losing himself along all the myriad rhythms practically bombarding him.

“Slam it back,” Laura commanded, handing him a cold glass already sweating off it's chill. Stiles accepted it and did as told, feeling the heat of alcohol dropping straight into his stomach and blossoming out, making the already warm club close to stifling. She gave him the second one and he drank it down, then let her pull him to the dance floor.

It was easy to get lost in the songs around him, to find the heartbeat of them all and let them drown out the world outside of the club. Losing himself in it, to the point where whether he looked like a flailing moron or not didn't matter to him at all, was also easy. (Spectacularly so, self consciousness had absolutely no place in his Heaven.)

“You can so dance!” Laura shouted in his ear and laughing. “Like half the guys in here are staring at you.”

Stiles accepted the white lie without complaint and kept moving. One song turned into two, two into five and he felt the sweat pouring down his back, felt dozens of other bodies brush against his. It was easy to drift to the middle, to get lost in everything, from touch to taste to sound, in the reverberations of the world pressing him down and up at the same time.

It wasn't until he was stumbling away from the dance floor, sweat trailing down his back that he realized he'd lost sight of his friends. Almost desperate for water, he pushed through the crowd to the bar and waited to be noticed. When he finally had the water in hand, he pulled from the bottle in gulps, the chill at odds with the heat at his back.

Clive was like a ghost, appearing at his side and throwing an arm around his shoulder. Stiles twitched violently, startled. Water spilled down the front of his shirt, cold on his chest.

He couldn't hear whatever the bouncer was saying over the music, everything a mash of syllables. He shook his head with what he hoped was an apologetic smile (but felt like a grimace) and slipped out from the heavy weight of Clive's arm. He felt the man watching him go, hoped he didn't follow him. He took the long way around the dance floor to the bathrooms, intent on splashing some water on his face.

"You okay?" Derek asked, leaning against the back wall.

"Clive kind of came out of nowhere. It's kind of creeping me out."

"Do you want to stay?"

"I mean, yeah. I just don't want-" He shook his head. "I should just talk to him."

"It's your birthday. Go find Laura, okay?"

He nodded, surprised when Derek didn't follow him back out onto the dance floor.

Hours later when they were spilling out of the club, Clive was sporting a massive bruise to the side of his face and resolutely looking at everything but him.

* * *

Barely able to sit still, he chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking as his grandfather finally showed him the design for his tattoo. It had been a vaguely worded promise months before, one he'd mostly forgotten.

“This marks you as a volxyf,” His grandfather said, finger tracing the outlaying arms and circle pattern of the design. “This,” He added, finger moving into the center. “Marks you as a wolf's herald.”

Stiles thought about the scar through his grandfather's tattoo, rupturing the center symbol of his former pack. The design on the paper lacked a pack symbol, almost looked empty for it.

“When do I get it?”

“After you complete your vow. Not much longer.”


	13. 2014

He regarded the oak tree with suspicion, something off about the songs around it. The world feeding into it, the songs and movements that made the area so powerful were natural- Right until they converged, something twisting about it, making him antsy in his own skin.

“It has to be a blood sacrifice?” He asked.

“Blood is important. It's the covenant,” His grandfather explained. “There's-”

“No going back, I know,” Stiles said, having heard his grandfather's warning more than once. “There's something in there.”

“Yes. I want you to listen to it, and tell me what you hear.”

Stiles closed his eyes and focused outside of himself, first looking for the everyday sounds of the forest to begin blocking them out. Except there were no sounds or movements, no sign of life. Below the silence was something else; an utter lack of sound that was as unnatural as it was unnerving. Despite the silence, there was an intensity to the feeling, a rapacious, pacing hunger.

“Shit,” He bleated, only just realizing his grandfather was holding his shoulders, helping him stay upright. “What the fuck is that?”

“That is a fox spirit. A kitsune.”

“And it's bound in the tree?”

“Yes,” His ded added a moment later. “It was before I came here. A woman bound it to the power here. It caused a blight. When I came here and found this place, I created wards and embedded them into the currents and the tree. The wards I've taught you must be renewed on the equinoxes.”

He stepped away, felt his feet planted firmly in the ground. “Is there any way to banish it?”

“Not one that won't bring bloodshed and death,” His ded warned. “Far too much to make it worth risking. The woman came here, when Talia was still new to her status, and asked to cut the tree down.” He sounded bitter, even a little frustrated.

“Why?”

“Because she believes felling it will rid her of the spirit and absolve her of the responsibility. She's wrong. This tree is sacred. It serves as many things, acting as a prison for the spirit is only one of it's most important functions. If you should ever meet her, tell her no. Whatever it takes, protect this tree.”

“Okay,” Stiles said.

“Do you think you're ready?”

Stiles looked back at the oak, remembering the sensation of that hunger, the eager, bottomless want.

“Will it connect me to the spirit?”

“Yes. There will be side effects. You will be aware of it, like you are aware of the territory, and anyone connected to it.”

“Will it be aware of me?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have a couple of days? Just to get used to the-” He nodded at the tree. “And go over what to expect? I don't want to freak out halfway through.”

His grandfather smiled. “That was the correct answer.”

“This was a test?”

“I was just making sure you're not going to run into situations without thinking. Binding yourself to the territory cannot be undone without severe consequences. It must be deliberate, especially because of the circumstances.”

“Would you have stopped me?”

“Yes.”

Hearing the truth, he reluctantly followed his grandfather back towards the road. He’d looked forward to binding himself to the territory for years, had anticipated it and everything it meant. Except now-

The thing inside the tree was bigger, deeper than anything he’d ever felt.

* * *

Knowing his grandfather would stop him, he didn’t attempt to inform him of his plans for the night, making his way back to the axis by memory and feel. The songs of the currents beneath his feet converged and sparked, becoming stronger, louder with every step closer to the axis.

Nervous tension made his heart stumble and flutter, blood pulsing too loud in his ears.

When he finally made it, he stopped in front of the tree, trying to imagine how much worse it had been, given the thing he felt now. Shuddering, he began laying out the tools he’d ‘borrowed’ from his grandfather’s workshop, all of them old, weighty with their own histories.

Refusing to back down, having hesitated for a month, he took a deep breath and began to sing.

His blood slipped down, fed the roots of the tree like rainwater.

The spirit inside stirred, moved anxiously on the other side of the barrier. He could feel it, quiet and patient, starved and eager.

_No._

He painted sigils on the air and sang, combining intent with his gift until he was opening up the world and himself, pulling from both and tying the ends together.

 _This isn't an offering to you,_ He told the thing trapped inside the magic of the tree. The tree itself might as well be magic, the movements of the earth feeding into it. The physical outline was nothing more than a shape, something to lean on. It was more, the bark surrounding a steadily burning conflagration, a tiny star rooted into the ground. _This is for my pack, for me._

It was unsettling, to know it was simply waiting. It was endless, time was nothing. He was nothing, in the grand scheme of things. It had barely been the blink of an eye since it was trapped. His life would be the space between one breath and the next. He was insignificant. Some day it would be free.

 _Not now._ Hopefully never.

The world opened up, the spirit stepping to the side. Stiles got the impression of a curtain being drawn away, the creature grinning as the earth fell from beneath his feet and he was seeing, all of Beacon Hills, the entirety of the territory alight, it's life fed by the steadily beating pulse of it's own movements.

Reality brightened, the songs growing too big to hold inside of his body, bigger than anything he’d felt before until it was too much and he was stumbling, dizzy and blinking, the world flickering between the dark, starry sky and the magic just beneath the surfaces. He’d heard magic, life before, but he’d never seen it, and it was too much for his sensitive eyes.

He felt them, felt them closing in on him even as he tried to find the boundaries of his own skin.

“Stiles?” Talia asked, staring down at him with red eyes. Luckily it was just her, although he could feel his grandfather, stronger than he ever had before.

“Is this why people do drugs?” He asked, dazed.

She smirked down at him. “You seem alright. Gave me a scare. I've no doubt your grandfather is on his way over.”

“Oh god, he's going to kill me for waking him up.”

“Don't worry. I'll probably do it first, and I'll be much quicker about it. Practically painless.”

“Anything I can do to stop that?”

“You can take me and your grandfather to a late dinner. Or early breakfast.”

“Sure thing. Just let me figure out how my legs are supposed to work and I will get right on that.”

He was still trying to get his legs under him when his grandfather arrived, shaking his head and cursing in russian.

“You didn't tell me it was like dropping face first into a nuclear reactor,” Stiles groaned, leaning a little more heavily into Talia than he would ever admit to.

“You should have expected it,” His ded shrugged, smirking at him.

“You’re certainly handling it better than I did,” Talia admitted. “I went for a two day run thinking it was two hours.”

“Huh. Any fun stories ded?”

“Not that I’ll share,” His grandfather laughed. Talia made a quiet comment he didn’t hear, his grandfather’s laughter growing louder as he ribbed them both.

It was an exclusive club he'd joined, one only Talia and his grandfather had been a part of. It felt good, being a part of something only they would understand.

The walk back to the road was nothing but lighthearted teasing as he slowly adjusted to the sounds of Talia and his grandfather, their songs stronger than ever. And below that the patient, bottomless thing that was nothing but silence.

The songs of his family, the pack, Beacon Hills made it easier to stay above that silence instead of falling into it.

* * *

“I don't tattoo. That was my brother's talent,” His grandfather told him, gaze fastened on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I've spoken to the man in town, and he seems very skilled. He's also agreed never to share the designs.”

“Awesome.” He was going to hate it.

* * *

Cold smoothed over his chest as he stared resolutely at the ceiling. A papertowel wiped him down and then he heard the buzzing sound, barely stayed in his own skin when the needle pressed into his flesh.

“These are your vows,” His grandfather spoke in Russian, quiet and soothing, a counterpoint to the needle buzzing in the background. “Keeper, Adviser, Executioner, Guardian.”

Quiet songs, old songs filled the tattoo parlor, barely louder than the tattoo gun. He mouthed the words, felt them building up beneath his skin, bleeding through him like ink.

* * *

Derek found him in the garage trying to find an oil filter he was sure he’d left there the week before.

“You smell like ink.”

“Because I got a tattoo,” Stiles said, feeling strangely shy about it. Cora and Scott had both poked and prodded him, demanded to see and touch the spot over his heart. His father had almost hit the roof. Stiles had (oh so luckily) escaped just as his ded had gotten started about sacred traditions.

“Can I see?”

He hadn’t shown it to anyone but his dad, but he slowly pulled his shirt up, exposing his design, his torso to Derek’s gaze.

He heard something changing, altering as Derek stepped forward, hand coming up even as he came closer. Tentative fingers, light, moved over the lines of the healing skin. A shudder rolled through him, his whole body swaying towards Derek. Heady static made him feel heavy, blurring at his own edges as he leaned in.

“Stiles-”

“Derek,” He countered, surprised when Derek’s setpped back as if he’d been slapped.

“No,” Derek bit out, shaking his head. “You’re not old enough for- No.”

“I’m old enough,” He tried, frowning, except Derek was still shaking his head.

“No, you’re not. Legal doesn’t mean mature enough for this.”

He pulled his shirt down, humiliation warring with anger. “I'm old enough to make a vow that binds me to the pack for the rest of my natural life, but I'm not mature enough to date. Fuck you too,” Stiles bit out. “You could have just said no.”

“That's not what I meant,” Derek growled, running a hand through his hair until it stood on end, spiking in a dozen different direction. “I said I'm too old for you.”

“I'm nineteen.”

“I'm twenty five. Stiles, you're just starting college. There's so much you have to experience, and this-” Derek said, pointing to himself and then to Stiles. “It wouldn't be fair to either of us. Both of us would have expectations that couldn't be met, experiences that wouldn't balance out. Having a relationship now would be unhealthy.”

“So I went from being immature to unhealthy. Thanks dude. Just let me go and I'll leave you to it.”

Derek shook his head. “No, you don't-” He snarled angrily, obviously frustrated. “I am not going to be Kate. Not for anyone, but especially not you.”

“Who the fuck is Kate? Every time I hear the name mentioned it's like the whole fucking world goes quiet. What did she do?” Stiles demanded, incensed.

“She took advantage of my inexperience and tried to use me to kill everyone!” Derek shouted, his voice echoing in the garage. Stiles tried to swallow, the sensation painful as a pocket of air went down his throat. Derek's eyes were blue, and Stiles had known for years what it meant, but it only became important now. Now when Derek looked so fragile and dangerous, ready to break or be broken.

“Kate Argent. Gerard Argent's daughter,” Derek began, voice hollow. And Stiles was suddenly positive he didn't want to hear anything else, didn't want to be in the same room, the same county with Derek as he spoke. “She was a substitute at the school, and older than me. Not much older than I am compared to you. She used her experience as power to get information out of me. On my family. I don't- I guess you don't remember. Your grandad kept you away from us for awhile after he found out. Until the Argents left.”

Stiles felt his stomach bottom out as moments connected themselves, disjointed memories sliding into place until a whole formed. “After mom died. He was yelling at you. I-” It had been the first time he'd ever understood why keeping the Hale's secret was so important. Kate had been an abstract to him, nothing compared to the idea that he could lose the pack. A faceless boogeyman. “He wouldn't let me come back for _months_.” And when he'd seen Derek again, his eyes had been different.

_He feels guilty._

Derek nodded, looking miserable. “Stiles, you're not immature. You're just not-You haven't gone to college or dealt with bills or even lived on your own. You haven't had any real relationships, or had the chance to figure out who you are.”

Stiles began to protest, stopped when Derek shook his head.

“I know you're the emissary. But you're not _just_ that, just like I'm not just a werewolf. And I can't, alright?”

He wasn't sure what he was feeling as he nodded. Humiliated, of course. Mortified. Afraid. Hurt. And so incomprehensibly young, suddenly. Like Derek had spoken from some high place he couldn't quite fathom.

That sensation drove home that maybe Derek had a point.

It didn't stop the rush of humiliated tears that scalded his eyes, the embarrassed heat making his face burn.

“I'm sorry,” He mumbled, not really sure what he was saying sorry for. He'd just dragged up what was undoubtedly a hellish memory for Derek, and he was still feeling sorry for himself. Jesus, he was a self centered prick.

Not giving Derek time to respond (and what could be any worse than what was already said?) he left the garage, stumbled out into the yard and towards his jeep. It took him a minute to figure out his keys before he was pulling out. The wheels spun for a moment before finding traction, and he didn't look anywhere in the vicinity of the garage as he left.

When he got home, his dad's car was in the driveway. Stiles wasn't sure if he wanted to avoid his dad or try talking to him. If he saw him, the conversation would be inevitable. If he avoided him, he might never have to talk about it.

Decided, he closed the door to his jeep quietly, practically crept inside and took care with the front door.

He'd almost made it to the stairs when his dad called out a greeting, mentioning pizza for dinner.

(It took one look for his dad to know something was wrong. In a rare show of kindness, he didn't press the issue. Stiles didn't say anything. They watched a pointless action flick together, and his dad didn't comment on how Stiles practically burrowed into his side.)

* * *

“I got accepted to Stanford,” He finally said, staring at the television. “I got the letter yesterday.”

“I don't want you to go,” Cora groaned into his stomach.

“Come on,” He tried, scratching at her scalp. “It's not forever.”

“Feels like forever,” Scott added, glaring up at him from his spot on the floor.

“It's just college.”

Laura peeked around the corner, grinning and ran in, stopping short of the couch, spreading her arms wide and falling over them. “Puppy pile.”

“I hate you,” Stiles groaned.

“Lies,” Laura crooned.

**Author's Note:**

> Znaiushchie Liudi: 'People who know'; A term for magicians etc - the story will stick mostly with the terms Vedun and Ved'ma (male/female witch, respectively). Koldun/koldin'ia might be mentioned in reference to dark magicians (liberties for story lore)


End file.
